


Shattered

by consultingdetectivesherlockh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Return, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:19:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingdetectivesherlockh/pseuds/consultingdetectivesherlockh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The three times John didn't mean to break his glass, and the one time he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered

A loud bang and the sound of scuffling woke up John. He looked at the clock. 3.11. What the hell, he thought. Who the hell is up this early? Sherlock is the only one who ever make this much noise. He jolted up. Was. He had yet to get used to using past tense. The problem was that he could never fully believe that his friend was gone. The man was brilliant, self-centered, and a bit mad, but he was in no way suicidal. It didn’t fit his personality. The only thing that made it difficult for John to believe he was alive was the image burned into his brain. He couldn’t sleep or even blink without seeing Sherlock’s bashed-up skull and blood on the concrete.

Despite always being reminded of the fall, John found that living was not as difficult as it first seemed. The first month, he ate a meal every few days, slept a total of 8 hours a week, and never left the flat. In fact, it took a considerable amount of effort for him to leave Sherlock’s room. He clung to the smell of his friend. John slept in his clothes. They fell off of his limbs in silky waves. He played Sherlock’s violin, usually making frightening sounds that threatened to rip the strings. Once when John thinking about the fall, he played a song on the violin that was so emotional, it had called Mrs. Hudson attention. She wondered where he learned to play, but never got an answer. John just stared ahead and continued to pluck at the strings.

Another troubling occurrence was the constant need to talk to the skull on the mantel. It was the only thing that John ever opened up to. He told it about his day, yelled at it when he was frustrated, held it while he cried; it was a replacement for the hole left in his life. The skull was beginning to look even more aged than it did when in the hands of its previous owners. John blamed it on the fact that it soaked up his tears twice a day for a month straight.

The second month was more bearable. John managed to leave the flat for groceries and, eventually, work. Albeit, Sarah had to carry him off the first day. He ended up going home early after passing out in front of a patient and his worried mother. Mrs. Hudson tutted him and left soup on the kitchen counter. He swallowed half of the bowl in under five minutes.

John was beginning to get back on track. At the bare minimum, he had two meals a day. There were some days when he couldn’t stomach anything because of the constant stream of blood and broken bones in his mind, but he would make up for it with three meals the next. Occasionally, he forgot about eating and spent the day looking up cold cases and trying desperately to distract himself from the inevitable crash.

Another requirement of his landlady was to get at least three hours of sleep a night. She found him once, four days without a wink, running about and yelling about ‘Moriarty’s web’ and nonsense that Mrs. Hudson had no desire to hear. Sleep, she said, is something you always insisted on him. You can’t pretend to be Sherlock anymore, John. You’re getting ill. John shrugged and agreed to comply. He felt empty with or without nourishment, but he knew better than to let himself wither away. He wasn’t okay, but he was getting better. He was a soldier, and he would tough it out.

The nightmares John had before the fall had disappeared completely. Now, his dreams featured the same event, but with a new twist every night. The first night, Moriarty pushed Sherlock off the building and cackled as the loud crunch of his bones hit the ground. His screams woke up Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner. John avoided sleep the next day, but eventually succumbed due to the fact that he worked 14 hours without breaks. The dreams had become worse; instead of Moriarty cackling and shoving, John had been the one to throw his friend over St. Bart’s. He avoided sleep like the plague.

The feeling that someone was watching him never left him. He saw Sherlock’s coat dash around every corner. Every time he followed, he found that the street was empty. The echoing sound of footsteps splashed through the puddles on the road. From then on, John ignored the image tugging at the corners of his eyes until it had become habitual.

Another crash broke him of his train of thought. John groaned and threw his feet over the edge of the bed. It’s Mycroft, I bet. He’s getting more of Sherlock’s experiments, he thought. Mycroft collected every spreadsheet, beaker and eyedropper in 221B. When Mycroft called to check on him once every week, John often accused him of sentiment. For what reason would he keep such toys? Mycroft was the British government; he didn’t have time to play with Sherlock’s things.

John limped downstairs. He was tired and pissed. John was left with almost nothing, and he wasn’t going to lose anything else. Mycroft was sure to get an earful. When he was done with him, Mycroft would wish that he never touched Sherlock’s things. His eyes scanned the living room. He avoided looking at the coat stand, knowing that the absence of Sherlock’s coat and scarf would cause a fumble in his rage. The room was relatively clean, except for the recent mud-steps leading to the kitchen. Great, he thought, another damn mess. I hope Mycroft plans on cleaning it. I’m sure as hell not going to.

The kitchen was dreadful. Normally, John kept the mugs in the top right cupboard and the kettle with them. Now, the door was flung open and crusty with brown dust. The kettle was wrapped with a bloody, mud-smeared handprint as was the mug next to it. John clenched his fist. The sight of his mug covered in the messy mixture sprung up the anger that whimpered in the living room. He curled his fist back, ready to punch the tall figure at the stove, but stopped when he noticed the halo of curls on the top of the lanky man’s head. John lowered his hand and took a deep breath. His feet brought him up to his room. He laid in his bed and cried until his eyes fell closed. The door was locked for the first of many nights.

Sherlock, on the other hand, did not notice the absence of his doctor. He waltzed to his microscope, pleased that his experiments were left untouched in his absence. There were new ones that he had been left, ones that John started, and ones that were completely ridiculous. Some of John’s experiments seemed interesting enough, but they were not what had his attention. The need to explain what happened on the rooftop rose in his chest. John needed to understand what happened. Sherlock considered telling him and continuing the work he started on his experiments simultaneously. The possibility of accidentally revealing how much the Fall had affected him was frightening at best, but it had to be done.

“John, this may be difficult for you to accept, but I am alive. I have been travelling, dismantling Moriarty’s web, and assuring that the sniper who was trained upon you was removed before I dared to risk returning and leaving you in a dangerous situation. Seeing as I am back, I would like to continue our association without any hitch in our previous routine. I believe you agree with me, as there is no objection coming from you. You may now sleep on this information and no longer experience any of the heinous nightmares that dared to plague you. If they continue to bother you, I assure you that I will be there to protect my blogger,” Sherlock canted. He paused and listened to the door that slammed loudly. Without realizing it, he followed the sound and listened intently to the sobs on the other side of the door. He nearly went in to comfort John, but the cries quieted and a soft snore resonated from the man. Sherlock opened the door to assure himself that he was alright. After checking his pulse, he nodded, even though he knew John could not see him, and whispered to the sleeping man, “I missed you.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The night after Sherlock’s return, John went to the pub with Lestrade. It was the first honest-to-goodness attempt he made at socializing in months. It was not the most exciting plan; be that as it may, he was elated for a chance to leave behind his lunatic. He busily got ready, putting on a nice shirt and a new pair of jeans. When he thought over the entirety of the past day (the silent stares, brief touches, unexplained cleaning, and slight adherence to leaving one another alone), he knew that he needed to be out with a friend to discuss how to approach Sherlock. He had avoided Sherlock, attempted to prevent him from finding out so that he would not insist on following, but it was in vain. Sherlock heard and seemed proud of the event and smiled when he overheard him on the phone. He had no intention of going with John. He was busy thinking of how he was to return to Scotland Yard without making a fuss. He sat on the couch and looked over the outfit with silent approval. John ignored his gaze and grabbed his jacket. He left the flat without a word. He didn’t hear his flatmate shout to him.

“Pick up patches on your way home.”

The night was painful at best. John opened the night by telling Greg what had happened the night before. A white elephant sat at the bar with them. No one mentioned it until the beers were ordered and in hand. After the drinking began, John’s mind began to wander through the same circle of thoughts. Greg was a bit of a distraction from them for awhile, but one cannot avoid oneself. When Lestrade was silent, he thought only of the man in his home, on his couch, in his life. He was frightened of him and his intentions. There were many unanswered (and unasked) questions about his return. Why would Sherlock come back after forcibly having John live through three years alone? John voiced this thought after his fourth beer, effectively slaughtering the elephant.

“I don’t understand why he came back, Greg. Why would he do that to me? Why,” John stammered. “He won’t speak to me. He’s so quiet. Sometimes I think he isn’t there!” The outburst instantly lifted a weight off of his shoulders. It was a lie, but it accurately described the silence that filled the flat. There were days in the past that Sherlock didn’t speak, but John knew he knew better than to stay silent during a difficult, emotional time. John was genuinely concerned about the situation. It poked at him every waking moment. He needed to talk about it more than he knew.

John watched Greg swallow slowly and reach for his glass. He still didn’t believe that the madman had risen from the dead. It was unorthodox, cruel, and impossible for him to do such a thing, and to return three years later. The idea of someone Greg loved doing that to him horrified him and made his chest clench with sympathy. He prayed for another explanation.

“Are you sure you haven’t gone mad,” Greg murmured over his glass. “Maybe your head’s trying to fix itself. You could talk to it.” The idea seemed logical, but potentially painful. The risk of discovering that he wasn’t there was nearly too much for John.

“I’m afraid of what he will say. What if he isn’t...what if you’re right?”

“If I am, then you can resolve what’s happened and how you feel. If not, then you get ‘im back.”

“I don’t think I can handle it, Greg. I can’t lose him again.”

Lestrade stared at his face and watched John slowly crumple against the bar. He placed a hand on his shoulder. “John, you made it through Afghan, you made it through his suicide, and you made it through his funeral. You can do this. You’re a bloody soldier,” he paused, waiting for some response from John. He took a deep breath and nodded. Lestrade took that as an invitation to go on. “If whatever this is isn’t real, we’re all here. We’re your mates, John. Me, Harry, Mike, and I bet even Donovan wouldn’t turn you away. You’ll make it through this.”

Lestrade and John ordered another round and tried to talk about something else, soccer, rugby, a case that was pestering Lestrade, but the topic always reared to the man who was waiting at home. An inevitable silence fell over them, leaving space for daydreams. John dropped his beer when his mind pictured the ghost that stood in his door when he awoke. The glass shattered, and the bartender moved to clean it. John didn’t want to see the man float around the flat any longer than a week, if he must stay. Lestrade agreed, encouraged him to call once he sorted it all out, and paid for the night.

John left soon after. He didn’t let himself cry in the pub or on the way up to the flat. Instead, he let himself be weary of Sherlock, and made himself promise not to avoid the situation. His steps were slow as he trudged up the steps, dreading what was waiting for him in the flat. He pleaded with an unfaced deity that the figure was gone. The alcohol buzz helped when he found Sherlock laying on the couch in the same position he left him three hours ago.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

John went out two days later when he found the flat in a state of total disarray. The small table in the living room was covered in papers, and beakers full of god-knows-what were on the floor. There were spots on the rug from where an acid burned through. Sherlock was sitting in the mess, blissfully unaware of the thoughts running through his doctor’s mind. At this point, John was beginning to worry. Sherlock had not said a word to him. He was silent and destructive, but broke his usual character by cleaning the massive amounts of messes he left in his wake. It was troubling John that he couldn’t figure out a logical reason for Sherlock to pick up after himself after years of making John do it. 

Sherlock moaned and rolled onto his side. He was obviously annoyed with something or someone. It was the perpetual state of which Sherlock returned with. He did little more than mope the past few days. Mope and moan and ignore the tea left out for him. John always repressed the sigh that rose in his chest, but this time he couldn’t. It sounded like a sob even to his ears.

“John?” Sherlock turned and fluidly sat up. His eyes darted to John and immediately took up the task of cataloguing the exact emotions on his face. “I will clean it later.”

John walked out. His phone chimed almost immediately. Dammit, Mycroft, he thought. The caller I.D. told him that it was Lestrade. “What is it, Greg?”

“My wife signed the papers today,” Lestrade’s voice droned. John could hear the pain leak into his voice. It was enough to convince him that self-pity was not the best way to spend the night. He told Greg to meet him at the pub, where they drank themselves silly.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The third time that Sherlock had seen John come home after drinking away a pub, he was singing and tripping on his own feet. He looked almost happy until his eyes strayed to Sherlock’s face. In an instant, his mask ripped and his face changed. He was visibly distressed; the wrinkles in his forehead were deeper than usual. His eyes were tired and sad. John noticed Sherlock was watching him. He flushed and tumbled over the rug, lost in his own thoughts. He walked into the kitchen while avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock heard a door open and the clinking of glass.

Curious, Sherlock crept in. He observed the scene as if a crime was committed there. His flatmate reach for the wine bottle that Mycroft had purchased as an early birthday present. It was heavy in his hands. He thought of Harry and his parents. His mind wandered as other faces filled his head. He knew they wouldn’t approve. John stared at it, and then looked to the cupboard full of glasses. It would be silly to dirty a glass, wouldn’t it? He thought. His eyes darted between the two for a minute. John shrugged and popped open the bottle. A perfume of berries and alcohol filled the air. It was an invitation that John accepted wholeheartedly. The liquid flowed down his throat. It was sweet like strawberries and honey. Sherlock stepped behind him.

“What’s troubling you, John?” Sherlock murmured. “There can be no relationship problems. You’ve not been on a date since I’ve come back. In fact, you’ve only left to drink yourself into a mindless stupor.”

John put the bottle down and sighed. He slid onto the ground. His hands covered his face. Trembling, he rose up and went to the sink. Cold water splashed onto his face. His tears were almost unnoticeable until he noted the water on his face dried and drops continued to fall down his cheeks. A sob wrecked from his chest.

“John?” Sherlock cadged. He inched closer and watched John breathe through his nose. The sound of his crying was almost physically painful. He picked out the sadness, hurt, pain, guilt, and regret in the noise. He flinched and grabbed put a hand on the bottle. He cooed and held wove his free fingers through John’s. John flinched. It was as if John didn’t want to hear his voice, feel his fingers. It seemed that he hated Sherlock’s existence. Since the return, every time Sherlock opened his mouth, John ignored him. Sherlock would have said he was still angry at him, but he appeared to be depressed and completely out of hope. Perhaps this new Mary phoned before he came back to the flat. She could have been tired of John’s refusal to go out, and dumped him.

John grabbed the bottle and drank until his fingers were weak and uncoordinated. The wine shattered on the floor and left a beautiful collection of glassy shards.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

John continued the drinking and binging process for about month before Sherlock found it imperative to shake him of his developing habit. In the morning, he waited on the couch with two cups of tea. The thumps of John’s early awakening echoed in the halls. He was hungover, obviously, and Sherlock could tell that today was going to be difficult. He rose and shoved the cuppa into his flatmate’s hand.

“Sit,” Sherlock commanded. John obeyed without a word. He rested into his favourite chair. However, not a single sound left his lips. He stared into Sherlock’s eyes and tried to pick out the reason for the sudden meeting. He remained mute. Sherlock groaned. “Speak.”

“About?” John whispered as he brought the tea to his lips. It burned his throat on the way down, but calmed and woke him at the same time. He needed the energy the drink could give him. Sleep was oozing from his voice.

“Why you have developed a sudden mutism after my return. You’ve said not a word to me, or in my presence,” Sherlock responded not completely truthful. He had heard the conversation on the phone, but John had not intended for him to listen. After another silence settled, John cleared his throat. There was a pause, a shuffle of feet, and he sat on the couch next to Sherlock. He was shaking and breathing through his nose. Sherlock watched his lips carefully, willfully pulling words from his mouth. “I don’t know what is real anymore.”

Sherlock's head tilted of its own accord. He inched closer and squinted. “What do you mean?” The sigh that followed his question sounded defeated and worried him more than he wish to admit.

“How?” The voice to his right said. It was a pitiful word, uttered with only sadness and utter unease.

“How did I survive?”  
“Yes.”

“I told you the first nigh-”

“I went to sleep the very first time I saw you, Sherlock. I didn’t hear a thing you said until I came home the third night I got pissed.”

“I spoke to you ofte-”

“You did not. I never heard your voice. I saw you, I saw your messes, and I saw you disappear whenever I turned my back. I never heard a single word escape from your lips.”

“Surely, you understand that this is just a-”

“Misunderstanding? Yes, I do. I don’t understand anything, Sherlock,” John goaded. “I’m an idiot, remember?”

“John, I didn’t mean-” Sherlock started. John raised his hand. He stood up, finished the drink, and through the mug at the nearest wall. He slid over the jagged porcelain pieces. His foot slipped on them, and he tumbled. Sherlock watched wide-eyed as his only friend fell and lodged the shrapnel in his face. He scrambled to John’s side and gouged each piece out. John screamed, writhed, punched, cried, and repeated. He was bleeding all over Sherlock's shirt, on the ground, and he simply stopped caring. Maybe, he thought, Sherlock will disappear if I hurt enough. John leaned into the touch, almost lodging a shard into his eye. He stopped when Sherlock placed a tentative hand on his cheek and leaned forward. He had taken off his shirt and was using it to clean the blood. It smelled like Sherlock. John gasped and grabbed his hand. He quickly found the pulse throbbing in Sherlock’s wrist. He reached up with his other hand and checked his throat for a pulse as well. Sherlock waited for him to finish before lifting him up and carrying him into Sherlock’s own bedroom. John’s eyes never left his face, nor did his fingers from his wrist. 

“You thought I was a hallucination,” Sherlock drawled as he placed his small body on the bed and laid next to him. John nodded and smacked him.

“Where the bloody hell do you get off-”

“John, not now. I missed you. Do not ruin this small moment of a heartfelt return with stupid questions.”

“Fine,” John said against his chest. He inched closer, taking in the heat of Sherlock’s body. “Why did you take off your shirt? There was a towel..”

“..that was too far away. You were bleeding, and I was afraid.”

“You? Afraid? What’s gotten into you?”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock grimaced. John snorted a laugh and looked up at Sherlock’s face. The level of steel-hard seriousness shocked him.

“Seriously? You? The great Sherlock Holmes? Mr. Married-to-his-work?”

Sherlock groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. A slight grumble sounded from behind the fabric, too quiet for John to hear. He thought it was something along the lines of, “you are part of my work,” but that would be ridiculous. Wouldn’t it?


End file.
